


Human Lessons: How To Get Shitfaced Drunk

by devilsduplicity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-18
Updated: 2010-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsduplicity/pseuds/devilsduplicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets Castiel drunk. Very, very drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Lessons: How To Get Shitfaced Drunk

How To Get Shitfaced Drunk

**Who:** Dean/Castiel, Sam  
 **What:** The first installment in a loosely-connected (though easily independent) collection of one-shots called "Human Lessons".  
 **When:** Set ambiguously before episode 5.03  
 **Word Count:** 3,652  
 **Warnings:** Language, alcoholic substance abuse, clingy drunken angels.

 

He stares bemusedly at the large glass of dirty brown liquid, and even though he understands the concept, he isn’t entirely sure why he should be participating in this activity in the first place.

“Dean,” Castiel says again, watching a drop of condensation drip off the edge of his cup. And then he pauses, because he was going to say something else -- something about how he isn’t quite sure he should even be doing this -- but the look of intensity on Dean’s face makes him swallow his words.

It still isn’t enough to make him swallow the beer.

“It’ll loosen you up,” says Dean in that matter-of-fact tone of his.

Castiel doesn’t understand, but he’s used to the sensation of confusion that comes as a direct result of submitting himself to the human’s presence.

When the angel continues to stare, Dean only shakes his head and sighs.

“God knows, you need it.”

Castiel perks up at that.

“You have spoken with God?”

At which point, Dean blinks slowly and downs a good third of his own glass.

Cas watches Dean’s throat as the liquid slides down, seemingly fascinated by the logistics of swallowing. It is enough to make the hunter pause, enough to make him settle his glass against the cheap, grainy wood of the bar and stare at his uptight companion worriedly.

“Cas?” Dean ventures, drawing the name out a little longer than absolutely necessary. He blames the buzz that’s currently inhibiting him from exercising basic restraint. Short syllables become long, and long syllables are cut out completely, because sometimes Dean forgets which word he is trying to say somewhere in the middle of enunciating it.

Cas is good, though. Cas is short, and simple, and pleasantly easy to say when buzzing on the edge of total oblivion; even if the ‘s’ is sometimes a little too pronounced, and the ‘a’ is dragged through about a hundred different tonal combinations before settling on something steady. It’s the ‘c’ that’s the best part, though. It’s the cruel, jarring _kuh_ that releases on a staccato note, the way it sounds violent when coming out, only to straighten its creases like a tepid ocean, all salt and saline smoothness. It’s like a backwards ‘fuck’, Dean thinks -- Castiel’s name. How the ‘f’ is velvet vetiver twirling across the lips, and the ‘ck’ is harsh restraint bit down on curling steel; crashes of thunder cascading atop cool grids of interconnected highways. _Fuck_. It feels good to say it -- to hold onto a word like that. To start with a hiss and end with a bite. It's vicious, deceptively calm near the beginning, subtly twisted near the middle, and all fangs and brutality at the end.

 _Fuck_ is the opposite of _Cas_. Cas is callous on the outside; severe and stoic and strict and a helluva lot more ‘s’ words Dean can’t even think of right now. The vitality of a stone wall at the beginning, a spindle of barbed wire, _kuh kuh_ , as beating and breathless as a blade scraping against stone, _kuh_. And then the ‘a’, a transition reminiscent of the letter ‘u’, only a lot more holy and a lot more angelic and a lot more un-fuck like than anything anyone could ever hear. Passing fancies and simple slurs and that soft velvet vetiver rising up again to tickle across the brow, because Cas may start out like a major fucking dick of a word, but _God_ , it _ends_ like a fucking orgasm.

It is at that point that Dean realizes he’s had way too much to drink.

He takes another swig for good measure, because it is at _that_ point that Dean realizes there is no such thing as _too much to drink_.

"Cas," Dean says in that peculiar manner once again. "I've had four, and you haven't even taken a _sip_ of yours."

The angel in question averts his eyes only to stare almost accusingly at the tall glass in front of him.

"I don't need to drink."

"It's not about _need_ tonight, dude."

Castiel continues to stare.

"Then... why..."

Dean nearly facepalms, but resists the urge because he isn't entirely sure he has enough hand-eye coordination at the moment to _not_ smack his glass and send it flying through the air.

"Why _not?_ " he counters instead.

Cas remains passive, but his eyes seem to crinkle in the manner his forehead cannot.

"I've already told you--"

"Yeah, you don't _need_ it. But what about want? That sounds like a pretty shitty excuse, if ya' ask me."

He only stares in response, and Dean, in his inebriated state, doesn't feel particularly bothered by the unwavering attention.

Castiel looks inside of Dean -- _inside_ of him, past the flesh and the sinew and the bone and the marrow -- looks straight down into his essence, into the transient, twisting soul he became intimately familiar with the moment he'd laid hands on its writhing mess down in the bowels of Hell, the moment his fingers had curled around its shoulder and pulled it kicking and screaming from the chains that held it bound. Castiel does not cut and measure and weigh the morality of the human before him, because humans oftentimes do not have a sense of right or wrong, but he carves a little picture inside of a little stone tablet and tucks it away in the confines of his mind for further study, and though the skin is not an object of interest for this particular epitaph, the indeterminable essence that Castiel senses yields much more valiant fruit.

Because Dean may be a mortal, but his soul is indomitably powerful.

Something clicks behind Castiel's eyes, a slight widening of his awareness, and slowly -- ever-so-slowly, as if any false move might end in a terrible predicament -- he moves his hand closer to the beer-filled glass and curls his fingers around the slick surface.

Dean leans forward in anticipation.

What Dean doesn't expect -- what Dean could never be _expected_ to expect -- is what happens next; the slight blink from Castiel's entrancingly blue eyes, the crinkling of his nose because it finds something distasteful, and those soft, pink lips parting in hesitation to catch the very rim of the cup.

And then.

Well, _then_ Dean's eyes widen in a mix between shock and horror as Castiel tips the cup back, takes a huge gulp, pauses as if not entirely happy with the taste, and then keeps on swallowing as if his very life depends on it. The glass arches backwards slowly, smoothly, and Cas' adam's apple wavers as the cooling liquid slides heavily down his throat. He doesn't pause for breath, doesn't pause to take a break, and only stops when the last golden drop slides a slithering trail past his parted lips and down his throat.

He snaps back to attention quickly, settles the glass on the table, and snakes out his tongue to catch the remaining liquid still clinging to the edges of his mouth.

Dean stares.

He pauses, takes a tiny sip of his own drink, and just sits there and _stares_.

"Did'ja like it?" he asks, his voice a husky shell of what it once was. The surprise still hasn't left him -- he hasn't yet thrown out the idea that perhaps Jimmy had taken over for those few moments and downed the damned drink himself.

But that is definitely Castiel sitting in front of him, alright. No one could just down an entire fucking liter of beer like they were taking a shot and sit that ramrod straight, have that much lucid clarity shining in their eyes. Unless they were an angel.

Or John Winchester.

But since Dean highly doubts his father has taken it upon himself to possess the dude possessing another dude, he decides to stick with the fact that Castiel has just gotten another notch on the Badass Totem Pole Dean uses as a mental scorecard to keep track of local badassery. His father whittled his totem pole down to a toothpick by the time Dean was twelve. Sammy got a few obligatory nicks for effort, and Bobby's is nothing more than a flimsy, weathered stick by now.

Castiel got some major point deductions for being, well, a little nerdy dude with wings, O Holy Tax Accountant of the Lord and all that. But he made up for it in a lot of creative ways, and now Dean has to begrudgingly admit that, _yeah_ , his little angel stalker is pretty fucking awesome.

When Cas keeps staring at his empty glass like he isn't exactly sure how it got there, and he seems so lost in thought that Dean has to ask, once again, if he liked it, Dean's pretty surprised when those crazy bright blue eyes flash towards him with the same cool blankness he's gotten way too familiar with over the past few months.

"No," Castiel says softly, then looks down at his hands.

And Dean can't help but blink at that.

"No _what?_ " Because certainly he's heard wrong. People didn't just gorge themselves on something they didn't particularly enjoy.

Castiel tilts his head to the side and regards Dean with a curious air.

"No, I didn't like it."

He doesn't, really. It's not that it tastes particularly bad, but the pleasant, hazy tingle Dean has described as a key factor in getting drunk is completely absent. Instead, Castiel only feels a little odd, because he isn't used to having the taste of something settle in his throat, and he most certainly isn't used to the sensation of something settling in his stomach.

Castiel doesn't remember a time when he was ever full, because he can't remember a time when he had ever felt the urge to eat.

So he just looks at the drink, lets his gaze slide upwards to watch Dean's reaction, feels like settling a hand over his stomach to affirm that, yes, he _had_ just participated in a glaringly human custom, but resists.

"Damn," Dean says once he gets over the shock. He leans back into his chair and whistles low. "I'd hate to see you down something you actually like."

Castiel isn't entirely sure he understands that, but leans forward despite.

"May we go now?"

Dean lets out a bark of laughter.

"Hell no! I came here to get you drunk, and we're not leaving 'til you're shitfaced."

He doesn't understand that, either -- a bit of the terminology, yes, but also his companion's urgency, the glint in Dean's eyes when he says the word 'drunk'. It's disconcerting, and has Castiel swallowing thickly when he settles back into his seat.

"Dean, I don't think--"

"Good. Keep it that way."

And with that, Dean snatches a passing waitress by the wrist and asks for another round -- " _two_ for my buddy here, ya' see, 'cause he's had a rough night, a rough _life_ , really, and could use a bit of inebriated fun before hitting the sack and waking up to hold his nose to the old grindstone at his regular nine to five."

Castiel doesn't particularly _want_ to hit any sacks, and the idea of burying his face in a grindstone is wholly unappealing, but he lets Dean talk -- as he is apt to do -- and only stares abjectly at the table. When the woman leaves, he glances up.

"I'm not... thirsty."

"You're never thirsty -- you're drinking anyway."

"It doesn't taste pleasant."

Dean laughs.

"No one really _likes_ beer, Cas. It's just there to make you feel good."

Castiel isn't entirely sure of that, but he doesn't argue further.

When the drinks come, he stares at his for a moment, brows furrowed and contemplative, then opens his mouth as if to say something -- make another protest of some sort. But when his eyes catch Dean's once again, when moss and river collide in a slow swell, he cuts off all noise trying to escape his throat and picks up the glass closest to him.

 

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 

There is a break in the middle of what constitutes reality, and something that slides like wet silk along the skin.

"You feelin' okay?"

Castiel shakes his head. He's starting to feel something, and that something is a far cry from 'okay'.

Dean's chair scrapes against the wood as he drags it closer.

"Hey, hey," he says, his words thick and his palms warm -- _warm_ , and dry, and pressing everywhere; pressing into Cas' shoulders, fingers gripping the layers of fabric, insistent and clumsy and jarring. "Hey, slow down. The cup's not got legs; it ain't goin' anywhere."

"Dean," Cas says, licks his lips and says it again. "Dean."

"Yeah, Cas? What?"

"The room is tilting."

Dean's grin is ear-to-ear.

"That's 'cause your head's tipped off that way," he says, then slates a gentle hand against Castiel's ear and pushes upwards to straighten out the other's stance.

" _Dean_ ," Castiel says again, grips the wrist attached to the hand attached to the side of his face; sentient beings in a symbiotic embrace. "That made it _worse_."

And Dean laughs because-- well, _hell_ , that was pretty funny, wasn't it? Castiel in all his ruffled offense, in his tussled demeanor and flitting, nervous eyes; an _angel_ bested by gravity.

"You can let go," he says, stifling the last wave of shuddering humor that jabs into his spine.

"I'll fall."

And the words are so helpless, they make Dean choke on his last laugh.

"No y'won't, Cas."

But when he tries to pull away, Castiel's grip tightens and he makes a desperate noise of protest from the back of his throat.

"I'll _fall_ ," he reiterates, as if Dean hadn't heard the first time, or hadn't understood, or maybe Cas had been accidentally speaking in another language, because he's pretty sure he won't be able to stay in his chair for much longer if Dean lets go.

"Cas, you're drunk, not stupid. Aren't angels like cats, anyways? Y'got nine lives and you always land on your feet, or somethin'?"

Castiel just blinks, then lifts up the drink his fingers were still curled around and downs the rest of it with a searing gulp.

Dean takes that moment to pull away, but Cas scrambles forward and grips his arm tightly.

" _Jesus_ ," Dean exclaims on an exhale. "If I'd known you'd be a clingy drunk, I would'a brought Sam along."

He tugs back again, trying to reclaim his arm for himself.

"Don't-- Dean, don't. Please."

Pleading blue eyes, all glassy and innocent and _desperate_.

Dean jerks back once more and frees his arm from the iron grip.

"You'll be fine," he mumbles, rubbing along the skin where Castiel had been holding on like a man on a fucking mission. Yeah, that would definitely bruise.

 

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 

At four he starts to feel a tingle. When he starts to lose count, he realizes that something is most definitely... amiss. It's a physical testament to a mental condition; it's in the way his tongue slips around inside of his mouth, how the strict lines around his lips soften, how the smoothness curls and deepens when he smiles.

How he doesn't notice when Dean keeps _looking_ at him in a way far different than usual.

How the accidental brush of their hands, when passing off another round, sends an electric jolt down his spine.

How Dean says in a slur nearly indistinguishable, "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

And how Castiel agrees, even though he doesn't really know what that means.

Because Cas would follow him to the _ends of the earth_ ; and that's only _half_ because the whole world is tilting and he isn't exactly sure he remembers how to take another step forward without a veteran alcoholic holding his hand.

Figuratively.

In reality, Dean has his whole fucking arm slung across Castiel's shoulders like a dead weight, like the yoke on an ox, and he's using that to steer the angel in whatever direction they're going. He thinks it would be a good idea to get back home, but at this point he can't remember if he's staying at Bobby's place, or if he and his brother are shacked up in another (negative) five-star motel; and beyond that, he can't remember where he parked the Impala, or if they walked to the bar, or if Cas ninja'd their asses there. But he _does_ know that it's _really fucking cold_ outside tonight, and it might not be snowing but the wind bites hard enough to leave a mark, and Dean may be able to hold his own with his thick, worn leather jacket, and Castiel might be able to tough it out in his layers of shirt-jacket-trench coat, but -- _fuck_ \-- he knows beneath those layers stands a bony non-human thing, and whether Castiel can even feel the cold or not, Dean isn't about to move his arm and expose his drinking buddy to the harsh midnight weather.

And that has _absolutely nothing_ to do with the fact that, without some kind of support, Dean is almost entirely certain he'll topple over into the ditch with nothing but a drunken, muted protest to part his lips.

 _Damn_ , getting drunk is fun, he can't help but think.

At least until morning.

But the clock just struck twelve, and they've got a long way to go before rounding the riverbend to regret, so, _yeah_ , Dean's almost entirely certain that right now, life's pretty fucking good.

 

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 

But morning does come, eventually. When jagged lines of dusty light filter through curtains haphazardly shut, and the smell of coffee invades his senses and makes his mouth water.

It is the thought of his mouth that makes his stomach turn over and do a few impressive somersaults, because he realizes, quite suddenly, that his tongue feels like cotton and his limbs feel like lead and his brain won't stop beating techno music against his skull.

"Nnnghh," he groans gracefully, which must have somehow translated to "coffee, _now_ " because a cup of the bitter liquid was placed on the bed stand directly in his line of sight.

"Morning, sunshine," he hears from above him, and squints his eyes upwards -- then up and up some more -- to peer at his overly cheerful brother.

"Gah," he says again, then buries his face in his pillow and curls back against the wall behind him. "How long've I been out?" he mumbles through a haze of sleep and hangover.

Sam grapples with what appears to be a wide grin trying to break out across his face, but settles for a slight twitch of his lips instead.

"Beats me. I don't know when you crawled back here last night, but it's two o'clock now."

Dean gives a slight huff, then sinks back into the warm wall and stares accusingly at his coffee.

And then blanches.

"Where's Cas?" he asks, suddenly worried. A flood of memories start to invade his senses, twirling around the headache thumping in his head.

_"I'll fall."_

He recalls jerking back at that. He remembers the disbelief that had swam through his drunken thoughts, and how, after another drink and a few more moments...

_After another drink and a few more moments, Castiel's iron grip on the table loosens -- loosens more than his tongue has, which is something that suprises Dean at first, but he quickly gets over the shock of hearing more of that gravelly voice than he could ever recall -- slips against his leg, along the seat of his chair, and then his body follows the tilt of his head and he--_

The impact of the fall echoes in Dean's head; how Castiel had crumpled in on himself, how he had struck the floor with a light _oomph_ , and how Dean had peeled back layers of laughter because, okay, _damn_ , that was probably the most hilarious thing he had ever seen in his entire life.

Sam stares, gives Dean a nonplussed look, and takes a sip of the coffee in his own hand.

"How much did you drink last night?" he asks, and Dean growls out of frustration, because only _dicks_ answer questions with questions.

"Enough," he says vaguely, then bites out once more, "Where's Cas?"

There's that smile again -- the one that makes Dean want to jump up and punch Sam in the face -- before his little brother answers him.

"I'm pretty sure he's biologically connected to your back by now."

"He's-- what?" Dean slurs, then shifts around and realizes--... he _can't_ shift around.

Because Castiel is clinging so tightly to his back, invading his privacy so thoroughly, that Dean finds it veritably impossible to budge an inch. The angel is a fucking _boulder_ , immobile and warm and solid and curled against him like the world will end if he lets go.

"Sam," he grits out when he hears his brother laughing not three feet in front of him. "Get him _off_."

"Aw. But he looks comfortable!"

" _Sam!_ "

"What?" And he takes a step back because he thinks his brother just might be capable of breaking out of the iron hold of an angel if it meant exacting some form of wrath. "I already tried! He growled at me!"

Dean pauses to make sure he heard that right, then ignores that statement altogether.

"Well, try harder!" he hisses instead.

"Not too keen on being angel chow, Dean."

It is at that moment that Castiel groans; buries his face between Dean's shoulder blades and presses his chest flat against the human's back.

"Dean," he mumbles quietly, and for the first time Dean is struck with how positively _odd_ it is to see Castiel asleep -- he isn't sure the angel's done it before.

"Dean," he says again, and then his whole body clenches. "My head hurts."

There are a million things he wants to say to that, but he takes the easy way out instead.

"If you let me go, I can get you some Advil."

Castiel shakes his head in a surprisingly human gesture, and clings tighter.

"I'll fall," he mumbles quietly against Dean's back, and Dean can only sigh.

That is the _last_ time he tries to get a holy warrior of God shitfaced.

Today is going to be a long, long day.

 

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~  
The End  
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~


End file.
